Sasha Fletcher reports via GMail chat on how we can turn indie lit commerce into alcoholic camaraderie:
so there’s like 20 copies left
and if we sell out today, ja will paypal me money to get drunk on fancy beers
Sasha Fletcher reports via GMail chat on how we can turn indie lit commerce into alcoholic camaraderie:
so there’s like 20 copies left
and if we sell out today, ja will paypal me money to get drunk on fancy beers

“The entire system of the novel in the last century, with its cumbersome machinery of continuity, linear chronology, causality, noncontradiction, was actually a last-ditch attempt to forget the disintegrated state we were left in when God withdrew from our souls, an attempt at least to keep up appearances by replacing the incomprehensible explosion of atoms, of black holes and impasses, with a reassuring, clear, unequivocal constellation woven so closely that we’d no longer hear death howling between the stitches, amidst broken threads hastily reknotted. No objection to this grandiose, unnatural project? . . . No objection, really?”
Alain Robbe-Grillet, from Ghosts in the Mirror
I know we already linked to it, but Mark Baumer’s walk-across-America trekblog is awesome.
the terrible puppet of my dreams, shall
lavish this on you–
the dense mine of the orchid, split in two.
And the fingernails that cinch such
environs?
And what about the staunch neighbor tabulations
with all their zest and doom?
.
I’m wearing badges
that cancel all your kindness. Forthright
I watch the silver Zeppelin
destroy the sky. To
stir your confidence?
To rouse what sanctions–? toothaches?
.
The silver strophe . . . the canto
bright with myth . . . Such
distances leap landward without
evil smile. And, as for me . . .
.
The window weight throbs in its blind
partition. To extinguish what I have of faith.
Yes, light. And it is always
always, always the eternal rainbow
And it is always the day, the farewell day unkind.
+
from The Complete Poems of Hart Crane, centennial edition, ed. Marc Simon, introduced by Harold Bloom. New Yorkers, you can have one for seven dollars at The Strand.
This is how the great Patrik Ourednik kills a character. Let it be a lesson to one and all:
Naiman died as stupidly as he lived. One day he decided to get a new washing machine for the cottage. But what to do with the old one? He loaded it into his car, drove into the forest, and rolled the machine to the top of the hill, intending to push it into a gorge; one garbage dump more or less, the Czech woods had survived worse. But no matter how hard he leaned into the thing, it wouldn’t budge, so, taking a few steps back, he sprinted forward, spinning around and throwing his haunches into it; the washer sailed into the gorge and Naiman along with it. Some nosy hiker discovered the body five days later, and the South Bohemian Tribune ran a brief obituary headlined “Expert Meets Tragic Death.”
Dyk gave a creaky laugh. Memories are the balm of old age.
The Moby Awards (Best Book Trailer) finalists are announced. Good on the lot of you! (Happy to see Kathryn Regina’s I’m In The Air Right Now on the list, as I suggested it. Happy to see the others, too. Also, though, self-attentive.)

What the hell, is that a laptop by Emily Bronte (d. 1848)? I assumed it was photo-shopped, but upon searching online, every version I found (from reliable non-satirical websites) shows the same laptop. It also looks like she’s fingering (probably should’ve used another word) her phone.